


Cobblestones

by maryagrawatson



Series: Scenes from Sherlock's Time in Eastern Europe [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-13
Updated: 2016-09-13
Packaged: 2018-08-14 20:21:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8027683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maryagrawatson/pseuds/maryagrawatson
Summary: Another imagined scene from Sherlock's time in Eastern Europe pre-season 3. Does not directly connect to the others except for common themes.





	Cobblestones

A rainy evening on Vitosha Boulevard so resembled a soggy evening in Soho with the way the light reflected off the wet cobblestones that Sherlock found himself choking on sobs of homesickness as, like many others, he huddled in the doorway of a business, using its overhang for a modicum of shelter. He was cold and hungry and tired of pissing behind skips because he couldn’t afford the lev charge for the public toilets. Three of the numerous downtown McDonald’s, having caught on that he wasn’t a customer, had barred him from entering. It was bad that he had been here long enough that people had begun to recognise him, but he had to stay in this part of Sofia to keep watch on his mark.

 

Soon as the rain let up into just a small drizzle, he continued northward, passing behind the Sveta Nedelya church, using the minaret of the Banya Bashi mosque as a landmark to reach the mineral springs outside the former public bathhouse. There, he hurried to the first free spigot he saw and gratefully stuck his frozen hands under the stream of hot water, not caring about the strong odour of sulfur. He went to remove his soggy shoes, then realised what a pointless gesture it would be to further wet his feet in this weather. Instead, he found a spot on a low wall as far from the opera singer as he could, made himself comfortable, and took off his woolen cap, proffering it to passersby while trying to look as pitiable as possible. The opera singer was strong competition, but he knew he looked hungry and that had to play in his favour. “Molya,” he would plead when a likely prospect strolled past him. “Khlyab, molya.”

 

He was so focused on the people passing in front of him that he startled at a gentle touch on his shoulder. He spun around to find a well-dressed businessman proffering a cup and a paper bag. “Banitsa i kafe?” the man asked.

Sherlock swallowed thickly. “Blagodarya,” he said gratefully. “Mnogo blagodarya.”

 

The coffee appeared untouched, but the man had taken a bite or two out of the cheesy pastry. That he had given up his snack made the offering even more special to Sherlock. He tried to savour his unexpected meal, but he hadn’t had anything all day and he was famished. He was always hungry when he was cold, as his thin frame fought to keep his body temperature up. With the weight he’d lost in the last months, he was cold all the time. He missed his Belstaff.

 

By the time the rain returned in full force, there were a couple of leva in his cap, enough for breakfast in the morning. He headed to the underpass between the Council of Ministers and the Presidency buildings to curl up in the darkest corner of the ruins of the ancient city of Serdica. The first night he had found this space that was so warm and dry, he had been certain it would be well patrolled, but no one bothered him. So he had come back again a few days later, when he had found a spot under a metal walkway that had deep shadows. The gravel was uncomfortable and the noise unbearable the odd time someone walked above him, but he was practically invisible as few people look down at their feet as they walk. He knew better than to make a habit of going to the same spot every night, so this location was a treat when he was particularly tired. Glancing surreptitiously around to make sure no one was nearby, he fell to his knees, crawled under the walkway, and curled up tightly, pressing himself against the wall. Sleep came quickly.

 

Light was streaming through the glass roof of the ruins when Sherlock woke. He felt rested, a luxury he hadn’t experienced in weeks. He used some of his precious coins to access the public toilets in the underpass. Access to these was just fifty stotinki, but they had an attendant, so he did not make a habit of using them. He gave himself a good wash at the basin and cleaned his teeth, sighing as he conceded he’d squeezed all the toothpaste he could out of the tube. He longed for a change of clothes, but making an effort to bathe the important bits daily had kept the clothes from smelling too badly, although they were starting to pick up stains from sleeping rough. He’d have to steal some new ones soon. When he’d made himself as presentable as he could, stuffing his long and frankly disgusting hair into the cap, he counted the coins he had left. Three leva and sixty-three stotinki; he’d done better the night before than he’d thought. If he shopped around, he could get a coffee and pastry this morning and still have enough for kebapche or even a slice of pizza later in the day.

 

He went above ground and wandered for a bit, checking prices, before ducking into a shop to grab a Nescafe and packaged croissant deal for only a lev. Thank God Bulgaria was so inexpensive. Once, he'd even found a falafel sandwich for only two leva when the place across the street back home wanted four quid for one half the size.

 

For the first time in days, with a good night of sleep behind him and food in his belly, Sherlock could think clearly. Judging by the number of times his mark had traveled to Niš and back in the last couple of weeks, he knew he was on the cusp of confirming that the final piece of the puzzle would be in Serbia.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Before coming to Eastern Europe for a few months, I stopped off in London for a few days. London was surprisingly delightful and I felt right at home there. My last night, I got caught in a downpour in Soho. A few weeks later, I had a very frustrating evening in Sofia that culminated with a downpour during which I uncharacteristically felt homesick because everything was just so alien. The contrast between that night in Bulgaria, where I didn't even know how to get service at a café, to the night in London where I laughed as I ran for cover in a pub to have a pint immediately put me in Sherlock's head.
> 
> "The place across the street back home" is the Holmes Grill at 220 Baker Street and their falafel are wonderful. Imagine it's called something else in the Sherlock-verse. :)


End file.
